A Perfect Colour
by riette
Summary: **SLASH** H/D. Sixth year Harry and Draco, a memory charm that wasn't cast. In this part: snakes, fairies and coding charms.
1. Default Chapter

Title: A Perfect Colour.  
  
Rating: NC-17  
  
Disclaimer: They're so not mine.  
  
Notes: This is H/D SLASH. It's rated NC-17 for a reason. Maybe Draco and Harry aren't doing any sexual gym yet, but it's a look into Draco's mind, how politically incorrect can that be? Many many thanks to Slytherlynx, who proof-read this for me, and was very patient while I did the groupie thing. Many thanks to Ruby, too, for moral support and such (and the impromptu beta on AIM). Although she probably won't see this, because she claims not to read HP slash. (Ah!)  
  
  
  
===========================  
  
Prologue: My nausea in a silver package  
  
===========================  
  
  
  
Hanging by threads of palest silver  
  
I could have stayed that way forever  
  
Bad blood and ghosts wrapped tight around me  
  
Nothing could ever seem to touch me  
  
[A stroke of luck – Garbage]  
  
  
  
  
  
Mother. Smell of richness and beauty, and warmth of love. Cologne, and softness, the soft skin between her neck and her shoulder where I allow myself to rest my head, in the brief embrace before I leave for Hogwarts. Morning.  
  
Sometimes I regret being a man, but at sixteen, that's what I am. I don't hold onto my mother for too long, I don't cry when I feel unhappy, frustrated enraged murderous overlooked, no, I don't. Not when others can see. I am a man. At five, I was a child. My mother was there when I was taught to fly. Father was at the Ministry, so it was her. She looked from a corner of the green gardens while I tried and tried and tried again. I giggled, yelped. I was afraid to fall. When I went back on the ground, I clutched at her robes, tight.  
  
Later she went in my room dressed in precious fabrics and diamonds, to kiss me goodnight after the nanny had me cleaned and tidy and stuck under thick, ancient blankets. She kissed me every night, and told me stories that scared me, before leaving for a party, for a dinner with people that I thought to be as beautiful and distant as she was. While she spoke of ghosts and incantations and fear, her eyes were blue, deep blue delicate and intense together, like a doll's–I widened mine and didn't dare move. What if I left the shell of my blankets, what if the Dark Witch got to me. She would surely slice my throat. That my mother was a Dark Witch herself, I found out just years later. At five, I was a child. Because the Dementors were still patrolling the Manor, Father tried to teach me how to conjure a Patronus. Mother taught me one night how to summon fairies.  
  
It was education. Education to me from my mother's smooth hands. It tingled like the little fairies' twinkle, it's subtle and frizzling, it seems so silver and innocent but there's plenty of mysteries. Silver is a Slytherin colour. When she was finished telling the story, Mother leaned onto my forehead and enfolded in the yellow light from the candles, she gave me the long awaited, reassuring kiss. Goodnight, goodnight. Be beautiful, you're mine. Who cares if my mother is a Dark Witch? She won't ever slice my throat. Someone else's, maybe. Not mine. She smells of long lost assurance. I can't hold her anymore, not too long, I can only wrap my arm lightly around her; we walk forwards prettily, beautifully, and full of power. How much power the Malfoys bought themselves. How many second chances. When we walk, people look at us. Straighten your back, raise your chin. When they whisper, breathe it all. That you're the middle of it. And I still can smell Mother's perfume, vague small and dying, curling in the air. I wish I could stay closer.  
  
The fairy I summoned yesterday night looked into my eyes, battling her wings quickly, in the half dark of my room. I was not sure I wanted to leave for school. The fairy was a little annoyed that I tear her from her world simply to entertain myself. To watch her when I am bored. To smell her, and realize she has no perfume. She's just silver, and silver is just a colour. So since she moved too much and too quickly, I bullied her, slapped her away when she went too close. In the very end, I fell asleep, and by then, she was already all over me. Little dumb creatures, the more you treat them bad, the more they get attached. Really, they just pretend to protest. I felt empathic. I decided to let her stay with me a little longer. Before I fell asleep, I heard a faint fluid sound, like water cascading down, from far, far away—fairy powder over me, she said, to give me sweet dreams, to take the nightmares away. I let her do, although it was pretty pointless. I never have nightmares.  
  
I never have nightmares. I sleep a dreamless sleep. The day, I straighten my neck and raise my chin. That seems to be enough. After Mother left the room, when I was five and she had just told me a scary story, I stared in the dark, trembling a little, clutching at the blankets, waiting for the Dark Witch. Then, I just closed my eyes and made myself forget about it. And slept my dreamless sleep. Smart child that I was. Champion talent that I have. Forget the monsters. Forget all about bad things, bad dreams, bad omens. Malfoys' goodnight stories are about Dark Magic, the mothers take care that their children grow well. I did. The summer is over, the morning is white and piercing like cold. I had no dreams yesterday night, and I am leaving for Hogwarts. A kiss received on my forehead. A hug that's no longer a hug. A brief curl of lingering perfume.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if Potter would smell like Mother.  
  
  
  
============  
  
  
  
The train to Hogwarts it's just a clichè. People meet after the summer—a lifetime, one would think—and they do their best to look thrilled, to look like they have missed each other so much, they could just have died. The girls could have, at least. The boys just go for manly hugging and male bonding, much of it. I suppose I would have liked something like this—or at least, taking part in the general celebration in a more stylish like I love others to think of me—if I was the toast of this school. Six years ago I though I was going to be, but then, no. No, I lost. The day I got up the train the first time, it was decided I wasn't to be in the spot-light. All the glory was stolen away for me. Father says Slytherins have their victories in the dark, and they are all the more sweet for that. Maybe. Surely. If Father says so.  
  
But still.  
  
I never really enjoyed the trip to Hogwarts anymore, since that day.  
  
  
  
============  
  
  
  
At platform 9 ¾ I ran into Ginny Weasley. She was standing in my way—I wanted to go in, and she stood by the door, looking flustered about her trunk, waiting, I thought, for the miracle to happen. Guess what? I wanted to climb right in that wagon. Couldn't use another entry, no no.  
  
"Waiting for Wonder Boy to help you, Damsel in distress?"  
  
She looked over, and blushed. Then she glared a bit, aware of having just been insulted somehow or maybe just annoyed at me by default; but she didn't speak back. Self-consciousness seemed to lead her more than anger, and she didn't seem quite able to form a counter line. Even if by the look on her face, she was desperate for one.  
  
That's the future Mrs. Potter for you. An idiot without control over her semantics. I suppose the Hero's woman doesn't need that: the more helpless she is, the more brave he feels. Good guys are so dull. Never give you a surprise.  
  
Just as my thoughts were starting to get metaphysical, came the "Let her be, you sodding git" from somewhere behind my shoulder, loud and self- assured and—it's not funny how the way I feel about him mirrors perfectly what he thinks about me? I listen carefully to the reports, I am eager to know what people say about Draco Malfoy. Ron Weasley's favourite nickname for me is 'That self-centered Ferret'. He thinks I am pompous and arrogant. I think the way he feels justified in his murderous instincts towards me, so un-Gryffindor like, is equally arrogant. Self-centered, to the core. So maybe I gave him reasons to hate my guts—but still, why shouldn't I? I am rich and pureblooded, I have a name whose mere mention inspires awe, and those of his kind are below me. I treat them just as I like.  
  
I turned to him and smirked, Ron Weasley coming to his sister's rescue was quite a sight. "Weasel, Weasel, do you love your sister so much?"  
  
"Malfoy!" The subtext contained in the question was completely uncalled for, and he growled, disgusted. "I swear, you have a sick mind," he hissed. "When do you think up—"  
  
"Where is your pimp?" I drawled, ignoring him, feeling on a roll. "Did he dump you to grope Granger, or maybe it was Finnigan?"  
  
He took a step towards me, movement violent and sudden. I don't think he was going to beat me, we were, after all, in full sight of the whole school body and the teaching staff. But the temptation was there, wasn't it. He does have a horrible temper. His sister flinched, and grabbed his arm before he could reach me. That was too bad. I wondered how many points from Gryffindor I could get before we even boarded the train. He was glaring at me, muttering obscenities. His sister looked panicked.  
  
Since I am not a Gryffindor unthinking idiot, I took a careful step back. "I swear, Weasley, you always make my day" My lips twitched into a little, smug smirk.  
  
"If it wasn't for my sister, Malfoy—  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're asking for it"  
  
"Ooh, scary. What exactly I am asking for?"  
  
"A Firebolt up your ass, that's what," he spat.  
  
I rolled my eyes. "Of course. Troll"  
  
That did it. Indeed, a horrible temper. He freed himself from his sister's grasp, made a wild dash for my front collar while she cried out, "Ron!", and I stepped back again, ever the prudent Slytherin. Unfortunately, that's when Perfect Potter decided to step in the scene.  
  
"Don't run too quickly, Malfoy," he said. "I am sure Ron wouldn't make it that bad, in public"  
  
I heard his voice. I stopped in my—rush, that's all right with me—and looked at him. He was taller than he had been. I couldn't figure out how put together he was under the large robes he wore, but this was Potter, not Weasley, and with him, it never was a physical threat. I looked at him. I took in his glasses, his eyes behind them, his expression calm but still revealing. He did loathe me. He still aimed to win with me.  
  
Both Weasley and his sister went, "Harry!", and even Weasley's voice contained relief, but he wouldn't look at them yet. He was all for me. I ducked my head, thought quickly, and gave him a grin.  
  
"Why, Potter. Never thought you cared. Missed me over the summer?"  
  
He snorted. "Like you wouldn't imagine, Malfoy," he said, voice so stretching and sarcastic it made me actually wonder if he hadn't been studying me over last year.  
  
"Never fear, Potter, that's exactly how I feel," I sneered, stretching even harder, striving to sound as malicious and cunning as I could. That was my playground. He couldn't even hope to win using my weapons.  
  
He didn't of course. Because then he did that thing he always does, while looking at me, like he was losing his patience. It always made me lose my patience too. Something like the game I always managed to play over Weasley. Which wasn't proper at all, of course. I did that. I was the Slytherin—not Harry Potter. The thing he did—when we where younger, it was more like a huff, an annoyed scowl. Now it was subtler, more poised, despite the whole teenage angst and awkwardness, he mastered his space very well when he was with me. He just rolled his eyes, or shook his head, gave me a mild look that read, Don't you ever get tired?  
  
Yes. Yes. I do.  
  
I am sick of it.  
  
And then he reminded me what I thought I made him forget, that in the moment he walked in the train, in the moment he stepped in the scene, I lost. "Where are Crabbe and Goyle?" he asked. "I missed them too, you know. But I am sure," he started to smile, the little shit, smile like a cat that just ate a deer. "No one missed them like you did when you were talking with Ron, Malfoy"  
  
There. See what I meant? He always steals all the glory away from me.  
  
Weasley was cheering on him, even his little useless sister, probably, was smiling thinly in triumph. I wasn't going to let that last. "I overheard an interesting conversation about you this summer, Potter," I murmured, sneering into his face, realizing with some amount of surprise but not discomfort that when I murmured to him like this, I almost sounded seductive, like purring into a lover's ear.  
  
Potter was still in smug mode. "Oh? What about it?"  
  
"That's a secret" I gave him a full, lovable grin, and ignored the incensed growl Weasley made for what I was saying implied—little Death Eater son that I was—and the way Potter's eyelids lowered and he suddenly was looking at me, focused. It was a good moment to end the conversation. It's fun how it's always me to win—in the small fights. I am very good at faking a victory. Pleased to know that at least they would throw insults at me through the whole trip, I turned to get as far as possible from them.  
  
  
  
  
  
============  
  
  
  
  
  
So after that I locked myself in this lonely compartment, not entirely able to black out the squeals and the calls and the occasional 'Oh and Potter this—Oh and Potter that'. I just wanted to have a private breakdown, really, maybe cry a little, slam my feet against the floor. I want to beat them into a bloody pulp. I swear, one day I will. I want to see if it looks as nice as it sounds, the bloody pulp. I'd kill Weasley if I could, the day I'm powerful enough I will, I'll tear his sorry, ruined excuse for a heart from his chest and feed it to the mountain trolls, where it belongs. He can be pureblooded as he like, but I am sure even his heart would look an unsatisfying, dull shade of red. And Potter—Oh, God. I refuse to second his Gryffindor code of nobility where people never run, to the point where they get themselves killed for some cheap overvalued concept like honour. I refuse to feel embarrassed by the fact that I am important enough to have personal bodyguards disguised as friends. It's not really this that does it. It's the fact that he doesn't seem to think I am important enough to act like a prince. I am not important enough. He is, of course—one day, I swear, he'll have more than one scar that gets everyone to look at him in sympathy. To coo and hug that fucking tender body of his, with the childish fat and the rosy cheeks, oh, look at him, isn't he pretty and sad, so sad, c'mere, let me hug you. He's not so small now, had quite a growth spurt over the summer, hadn't he. How dare he grow, make his presence more conspicuous than mine, make his words surer than mine, how dare he be happier than me. I grab a handful of my robe, I clutch tightly and twist the black fabric, I look while my knuckles go white.  
  
Then I bring my hand to my mouth and bite, hard. God, Potter. Potter, Potter, Potter, Potter.  
  
Ginny Weasley only pretends to be pure and white and innocent, because that will look best in the dress she wears the day she gets lucky.  
  
And then Pansy slides the doors of the compartment open—it couldn't last long—and looks down at me, the knuckles reddened in my mouth, my little white teeth sinking deep. She arches an eyebrow. "Out of control, already?"  
  
I put my hand in my lap. "Of course not. I was testing how much it takes before bleeding"  
  
She stares some more, then smiles greasily. "Nice," she says, walking in, all flesh, over her breast and her hips. She puts her trunk away and before sitting down, she rests a hand on my arm and leans over to kiss my cheek. Her nails sink in my skin, even through the robe, clingy Pansy, now it's just confined to brief moments which she thinks are dignified enough, but she just cannot hide her need. I stare at her, unimpressed, when she retreats and sits on the seat opposite mine. "Slytherins don't do that," I say pointedly.  
  
She tilts her head, smiling. "Slytherins don't do many things" She says this in a slightly wry tone, and of course, there's nothing to reply. "How was your summer?" she continues "I developed mad Imperius skills"  
  
I am so happy not all girls in this school are Gryffindor. Pansy may still fancy me, and that's rotten—not because of the feeling per se but because it's obsessive—but at least she doesn't blush. "I thought," I say "You already did that—all last year"  
  
Her smile gets sincerely merry. "Yes, but I had the House Elves dancing the waltz this time—all of them, in circle, in the Main Hall!" She sighs. "What a sight"  
  
My recollection of the Parkinson's Hall is a gash of sparkly pink and a display of clashing textures and materials. It has my father always hissing under his teeth, "Nouveau riche", with an oddly satisfied smirk on his lips. House Elves dancing the waltz must have been, through, a great sight indeed. I raise my eyebrow at her. "Oh?"  
  
"Mm," she nods. "Too bad I couldn't dress them. Would have looked even better in a pink tutu" She throws me a regretting look. I roll my eyes, in spite of the almost coziness of it all. Of course, we can't get cozy. Slytherins don't do that.  
  
Slytherins don't do many things.  
  
Blaise bursts in the compartment, noisy and egocentric as always. "Dearests, I was searching for you" he says with a delighted smile. He has a fair complexion, brown eyes, and black hair that he gets to be a bit unruly because 'It's a lot sexier than a good boy style'—and here he throws me a meaningful look, that I counter muttering 'Harry Potter', which makes him frown and stress that, 'It's an entirely different thing—I do it purposely, I know what's a brush, and can we stop talking about Harry Potter please"  
  
"Where are C&G?," he asks lazily now, sitting himself down near Pansy, accepting a kiss from her with a lot more ease than I did.  
  
"Guarding the baggage and staying away" I explain vaguely, leaning on the window and resting my forehead against it.  
  
He nods. "What lovely servants you Malfoys have" Then he breaks into an excited grin. "But, how boring. Let me tell you about my summer. You wouldn't imagine how shameless French boys are"  
  
Pansy sneers, and stretches in her seat, showing off her remarkable leverage. I look at my perfectly polished nails. "Do tell"  
  
He starts talking, and I look out of the window, smirking as he proceeds with his tale. It was pretty tiring before, with Potter. Isn't it always. But I like this. Relief. Time break. Some day I'll burn a wedding dress and I'll send it to Ginny Weasley, wrapped in a silver package. Maybe, I'll send a rose, too. Scarlet.  
  
  
  
  
  
=======  
  
  
  
  
  
The Sorting Hat's riddle is a pink strawberry-flavoured candy, like butterbeer in a snug corner, children dancing in a circle, lovers kissing in front of the fire, exchanging rings and eternal vows. The fire is too warm.  
  
You just know what founder that hat belonged to.  
  
Lucrezia Ledeuil, Zackary Bosh, Frederick Rowland, the new kids in our ranks. Then I lose interest in the Sorting and start doing my own. Which Hufflepuff I'd love to see quivering, cornered by Crabbe and Goyle in a lonely corridor, white as a dead, pleading for release. Which Ravenclaw I'd like to… lay, let's say: we're not trolls, we're not Weasleys, language, language. There are voices in my head again—I roll my eyes. As for Gryffindors, I never look at their table once. I need a pause before the Grand Reopening. I breathe.  
  
The Sorting has finished.  
  
A dark-haired boy sits in front of me. Eleven years old, pale and thin, gaunt already, he smiles—knowingly. I return the smile. Through the whole dinner, I chat with him absent-mindedly, to relieve myself from the fact that it tastes a little too much Gryffindor, what doesn't in this school. The boy's name is Ellis, Ah, yes, I believe my father knows yours, of course he already knows who I am, other smiles, the Gryffindors? Dumbledore's pets, they'll get what they deserve. More smiles, more empathy, I know, you know. He looks smart.  
  
He'll soon find out the Gryffindors are never going to get what they deserve. And how to make them pay for it.  
  
I make a mistake, and look over at their table. Weasley is laughing. Potter is talking with Granger, they look animated, and ordinary. They don't look at me. I stand up, and walk away.  
  
  
  
===============  
  
  
  
Blaise is bugging me. He always wants to fuck, and I never let him. He keeps coming onto me and talking to me and he even touches my hair. For fuck's sake, I hate that. I tell him to go and do some Hufflepuff since that's all he's good for. He asks Crabbe if I have PMS. Crabbe doesn't understand and grunts. I throw them out.  
  
Alone, with the green blankets and the elegant posters. I free the fairy and she starts flying everywhere, hissing in my face.  
  
"A whole day into a trunk! That was not nice! I am a first class! I am a pure one!"  
  
Just like me, love. I admit that was not nice. I gather her in my hands, I kiss her on the head.  
  
She pouts. "Where are we?"  
  
"Hogwarts"  
  
"Ew" she wrinkles her nose. "It's filled with crossbreeds!"  
  
I nod, understanding. "I know, love" Indeed, it is.  
  
She frowns. "Well, do something about it, Sir. It's you the one who called me. You know it's illegal? The Avalon Act of the 1635 on Relations with Forbidden Lands states—  
  
I do something about it. I smack her, then cast a sleeping charm.  
  
Looking at her lithe body resting in my hands, I remember two things.  
  
I remember: my first summoning, when I was five, the spark of black fire, the rapid heartbeat. And then the silver traces dissolving in the air, quick, beauty in motion, through the silver my mother's doll eyes, beauty in stillness.  
  
I didn't know it was Dark Magic, summoning pure fairies from forbidden lands.  
  
I used to ask, can we really? Can we?  
  
I didn't ask to be reassured that we were in the right, I asked to be reassured that we could do everything.  
  
She always answered, Yes.  
  
And I remember: lurking behind my father's door, one night, end of August, I always lurk there, I almost never knock. I remember, that night, hearing Potter's name. Potter, Potter, Potter. I couldn't tear myself away. I forgot to leave. Father found me sitting down against the walk opposite his rooms. I glanced in through the half-opened door. There was no one. The flames in the grate where dying.  
  
"Who was that?" I asked.  
  
"Wormtail"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Never repeat that name with anyone"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Do I have to put a memory charm on you?"  
  
"…No"  
  
I look at the fairy. So Potter will die. Probably. So he will. I wished for his death, I even prayed for it, after the Triwizard Tournament. A prayer wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? And even if it did? We can do everything. I grew up, and I still wish for Potter's death, sometimes. Growing up you deal with long summers, you overhear conversations; growing up, it happens some nights that you are so angry to pour Veritaserum into your father's brandy, because he wouldn't bring you to see the Chudley Cannons after getting the best places booked, after promising he would and it was so hard even to ask him to promise. Growing up you spend the whole night sweating and shaking and looking at the ceiling and at six in the morning, long before the Ministry officers arrive, you sneak out of your room and get the damn bottle and just throw it away. Potter's Death will feed the Eaters. Father will take me to see the Chudley Cannons.  
  
"Do I have to put a memory charm on you?"  
  
"…No"  
  
It was a moral query. I didn't want to respond.  
  
I still don't.  
  
I slide the fairy inside my robes, and leave for the common room. Blaise did go hunt Huffelpuffs, in the end. I tap my fingers on Millicent Bullstrode's shoulder, she looks up and nods, she stands, without bothering to apologize with the group of six years she was talking to.  
  
Bullstrode isn't blond nor pretty like me, and proved herself to be a remarkable stress reliever after Easter break last year. She's different from Pansy, she is even less nice, for one. But if you hold her gaze long enough, she smiles knowingly, too. She does so opening the door of Snape's classroom, we share a kiss or two, I believe this will be the last time I do this with her, and she knows it too. After a while, it gets repetitive. I am about to push her on her knees in front of me, when I notice that the door to the cupboard near the class is half opened, and from inside comes a dim, yellow light.  
  
I tell Bullstrode to go. Smart girl, she immediately does so. Then I slide the door open, and lower my eyes to a small girl, sitting cross-legged in a corner, clutching a diary and a quill to her chest. A small lumos radiates light in circles just near her head. It's Ginny Weasley. I smile, knowingly.  
  
  
  
  
  
===========  
  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes I wonder what is it that makes Slytherins smile the way they do—what do we know that the others don't. Probably it is just the knowledge that it's good to have a secret, so we act like we have one, even if we don't. Maybe it's this our secret. Maybe we have a secret that we still don't know.  
  
  
  
===========  
  
  
  
"Weasley? Oh, this is rich," I drawl, holding my phonemes firmly in place, controlling the sounds to be sweet and slow and faintly feral. I love the 'r'. The 'r' comes so in handy. The girl has red hair and her pale face is bursting now, into a violent, irregular red too. Unlike all her brothers, though, she has some delicacy hidden there, in the curve of her chin, the roundness of her eyes. It must come from being a female. Maybe it comes from being preordained. Preordained to becoming the Perfect Potter's Wife. Even scrawny and clumsy adolescent girls manage to give out the requisite air of loveliness, if they are Potter's Mate of Choice.  
  
I suddenly remember I should sound more feral than sweet. Like I could draw blood.  
  
"Well? Can't you talk?" I ask. She's all bones and eyes. And mortification, shame, humiliation paint themselves clearly onto her small, graceless face. I know that look, and it annoys me. She's feeling so stupid right now, so invisible despite trying, trying so hard. Can't even come up with an effective comeback. They are never effective enough. Seeing the pain inflicted, I seek for more. "I always suspected it, you know" I see then, that her eyes are full of rage, also, and I admit I am surprised, who knew there could be so much. But it's suppressed rage, she won't let it come out and kill. She has to be kind. Bear it all. I duck my head, I am so tired all of a sudden, and I ask, then. "Why do you even exist?"  
  
There is a sudden intake of breath. Trembling, hissing, almost, almost slithering. There is a sudden silence. The residual image of a possible action, the contemplation of her jolting up, jumping me, biting and scratching and venging it all on me. That residual image is silver.  
  
She doesn't do it.  
  
She breathes again.  
  
She tries to speak a couple of times.  
  
"Fuck… fuck… fuck you"  
  
As I said, this is rich.  
  
  
  
  
  
===========  
  
  
  
  
  
When I come back, Bullstrode stops me before I slide in my bedroom. Dark all around. A vague buzz from the girls' chambers. Everybody else sleeps.  
  
She says, "Let's finish this well"  
  
Indeed.  
  
While she works her head on my lap, I think that an orgasm is violent like vomit. Coming is like puking at its peak, it tears you apart. I buckle, close my eyes. An orgasm is so violent it makes you sick. Waves of nausea constricting my throat, an acid taste in my mouth. I feel like this when I think of Potter, the acid nausea pressing but never bursting, bidding its time and suffocating until I am afraid I will implode. I feel like this when I lurk behind my father's door, when my mother's arm wraps around mine and I am too distant to small her perfume, almost there but not quite, I feel sick. I feel sick now because an orgasm is violent, just like when my eyes meet Potter's, I hate him so much it just turns to ache. I stop bucking, I stop thinking of him, she's lapping at me now, lazily, cleaning me and taking care of me.  
  
There are moments when I wish that Father had put that memory charm on me.  
  
I don't kiss her before leaving.  
  
  
  
  
  
=======  
  
  
  
  
  
My last thoughts before falling asleep are for Ginny Weasley. I think of her and communion, because, as I said, communion is rich. As I lay awake in my bed, I am still contemplating why I did what I did then, after hearing that girl's slithering voice insulting me, so shaky with feelings it could hardly express one. A hiss in a whisper, a whisper in a hiss. In the darkness of the cupboard, I took the fairy out of my pocket, she was still sleeping, and we were both so silent and alert that the charm never broke. I handed the small bundle out to Ginny Weasley. I told her, "Look how benevolent I can be. This will give you sweet dreams." It was vaguely insulting. I always take care to sound at least a bit insulting when I speak to Gryffindors. And I am still wondering why she took it, why despite her eyes widening, her hands shaking with fear she took it, took a present from me.  
  
I thought: to actually fuck Ginny Weasley there and then. To try at least, to scare her for dear life—traumatize her and nullify her possibilities for happy Potter ending.  
  
I thought: to snatch her diary and make sure the whole school is informed, tomorrow, of its contents. I am fairly certain there is plenty of moaning and sighing and bad poetry about Potter. He would be sympathetic with her, furious at me, but it would change nothing, she'd never be able look at him in the eyes again. Ron Weasley incensed. People hissing, Malfoy, that creepy jerk. Death is not enough for him.  
  
I gave her the fairy instead—because she clutched so hard that diary to her flat chest, and I am sure the reason she was in that cupboard all alone is that she is afraid to let her friends know she is keeping a diary again. Because she really slithered, for a moment. Because now I don't even need to cast silencing spells around my bed to black out Blaise's sated snoring, I am too wrapped in my wonderment to notice: I wonder about her. I wonder if my fairy will brush her powder over her sleeping body tonight, if it will give her sweet dreams. If she will dream of Potter.  
  
I always do.  
  
She was swallowing under the feeble light of her lumos, she was trying to figure if this was just another ploy to take revenge on her for something she didn't do—like father, like son. She was looking at the fairy like she really wanted to take it.  
  
"She still doesn't have a name. Pick one for me, why don't you" I told her then.  
  
And she nodded, took the fairy in her hands, careful not to awaken her. "I won't tell anyone," she whispered.  
  
"I'll kill you if you do"  
  
Sudden scared huge eyes silence long focused and expecting and then a wild nod, a skinny girl turning and running out of a room, with a silver fairy nestled carefully in the cradle of her hands. Scared rabbit, couldn't resist the temptation. Or maybe what she couldn't resist—was the communion.  
  
There's my present for Ginny Weasley—I thought about giving her a burnt wedding dress and I ended offering her a fairy instead.  
  
Silver is a Slytherin color.  
  
  
  
  
  
================  
  
TBC  
  
  
  
Shot outs:  
  
-- The very lovely Audrey Thurston Hirsch, who writes the sexiest and most brilliant Ginny ever: 'Speak Desire'. I'm sure you already read it. If not, you really should.  
  
-- Ivy Blossom's goth Ginny, who's very different from the blushy girl in my fanfic, and probably a lot more fetching. Goth Ginny is part of 'Belong', and 'Belong' is definitely a must-read. I'm sure you know that.  
  
-- The Fairy in Libertine's 'Harry Potter and the Internet'! *laughs* I thought she was going to be just eye-candy (which was fine with me, there are too little fairies in the HP fandom) but turns out she's God's messenger instead. Cheers! By the way, do you know any fanfic with fairies in a lead role? I never found one, was very disappointed. But maybe that's because I only read H/D, it's a bit limitative, isn't it? Oh, and read Harry Potter and the Internet. It's for your own good.  
  
  
  
====  
  
'Zackary Bosh' is the main character of Drawing Blood. Read Poppy Z Brite!  
  
Bret Easton 'Ellis' is my favourite writer. He really is.  
  
'Avalon': quite obviously, from 'The mists of Avalon', by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Revival time two weeks ago with a friend: was very pleased to realize that my favourite writer when I was thirteen was really into incest and threesomes and boy on boy stuff.  
  
The song 'Doll parts' was listened repeatedly through the writing of this. Maybe it shows out.  
  
====  
  
Next chapter will feature: Pansy forcing Snape in a pink tutu with her mad Imperious skills. No, really. There's Harry speaking, more of the fairies, and your standard detention. Oh, and a final note: I love Ron. Just, Draco doesn't. 


	2. 1

Title: A Perfect Colour  
  
Rating: R  
  
Disclaimer: The characters used in this fiction belong to JK Rowling, various publishers and Warner Bros Inc. Standard disclaimer applies.   
  
Notes: After some struggling, I decided to lower the rating. Still, it's an R, so use your discretion. Many many thanks to everyone who reviewed or recommended this, it really was a surprise! Of course, endless gratitude goes to Ruby, who not only proofread, but also discussed with me characterizations and canon in front of Chinese food and pizza. She's my personal L.O.O.N., and I love her very much.   
  
  
  
  
===========================  
  
Chapter 1: The green, green snakes   
  
===========================  
  
  
  
  
And if you spin your love around  
The secrets of your dreams  
You may find your love is gone  
And is not quite what it seemed  
[Thru the eyes of Ruby – Smashing Pumpkins]  
  
  
  
  
Harry awoke from deep sleep. A green gash was fixed on his pupils: it lingered over his vision while he fluttered his eyes open. The green threads. A charged green. The snakes. Harry was not sure whether he had dreamed or not, whether the dreams had be sweet. His body did feel sweet. Warm, rested, and absolutely relaxed. He stirred, stretched minutely not to disturb the peace of his muscles and the one inside his head, and glanced at the clock: ten minutes to six.   
  
Almost time to go.  
  
He sighed, and closed his eyes again. Rolling on his belly and sinking his face in the pillow, he started to build a picture of the room, tried to guess how it looked right now. He didn't need to watch. It was home—he supposed a normal kid, one that had not been raised in a cupboard, felt like that about the place where he had always lived. No matter how long he was away from the Burrow, Ron would never forget the way the wall opposite his bed looked at night, the way the moonlight played over it; Ron, Harry guessed, would never forget the sound of his Mother's steps approaching on the corridor, before she entered the room, told him to wake up, and then realizing it just wouldn't go through, walked to his bed, shook him, threw away the snug old blankets from his body. Harry had fantasized about that kind of things all his life. Now, at age sixteen, he had been given that gift too.   
  
To know: that Dean would be sleeping quietly, not exactly composed under the coverlets but fine, unlike Seamus—who was probably on his belly, blankets half on him half on the floor, one arm hanging loosely out of the bed. To know: that Ron's Chudley Cannons action figures would be thrown all over the place and over Dean's sketches, to know that those sketches would lay not in a mess, not in maniacal order either on the desk near him, because everything Dean owned was set into a kind of organization that was natural and neat together. To hear, in his mind: the quiet pattern of Neville's snoring, even before the sound reached his own ears. To wonder: if Seamus forgot again to hide properly his porn magazines, if a corner of them would emerge accusingly from the lip of the blankets.   
  
Family is a word that can be evoked by the image of porn magazines.  
  
He grinned, eyes still closed, and lingered in the warmth of the blankets, in the warmth of the room and the warmth of the word, and the gash of green dissolved. Just then he stood up. He silently walked out to the bathrooms, washed himself, tried to comb his hair. He went back in the room, dressed, and walked out again, heading for the stairs that led downstairs, to the common room and then out of the familiar security of the Gryffindor Tower.   
  
He met only Hermione on his way out, bent over a pile of parchments in the sunny corner of the common room. She said she preferred working there, because it was where the light was white, and so was the library, too—white.   
  
"Hermione, I should have known," he said, stopping briefly by her seat. He glanced at the papers she was studying, all marked with the Hogwards header and looking generally prefect material. His lips twitched.   
  
She laughed, a bit embarrassed. "I just wanted to—organize my work"  
  
Harry smiled more gently. "Just don't go Percy on us, Hermione"   
  
Her shoulders straightened instantly. "You don't need to tell me," she bit back, piqued. Then she relaxed, because after all she was no Percy, and smiled. She also raised at him an oddly hairless, rounded eyebrow, and her voice went teasing. "And I should have known, too." Hermione, Harry noticed, had very nice eyebrows. Against the pale, pasty pink of her face, they looked abstract and girly together. "Do I have to start worrying about these morning strolls? I thought it rubbed off during the summer"  
  
Harry's smile didn't waver. "It's just to clear the mind, you know. Like a little revision the first day of school, mm?"  
  
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. Finally, she sighed. "Right," she said. She looked maternal these times, but also so very self-conscious. Harry liked especially how Hermione looked imperfect.   
  
"Just don't tell Ron," he said lightly, by way of goodbye.  
  
"You, too" They shared another smile, the smile that was private and coded and reassuring. Then she turned back to her work, head bowed in the white light. Harry walked away.   
  
It was odd, he thought while he strolled through the corridors, how easily he could lie to the same close friends whom with he shared smiles like that. It made him feel guilty. The same white light Hermione sought out in the common room was entering the castle through every clear window, and it slid over Harry as he walked from room to room, fighting without efforts against the web of doors and passages Dumbledore cast upon ill-disciplined students. He very much doubted Dumbledore thought something like that could keep him quiet, after everything he went through. He didn't feel guilty for breaking rules. He did feel guilty for lying to Hermione. Still, he did. He didn't wake at six in the morning for a simple walk.   
  
In the Great Hall, Harry stole a quick glance at the weather outside. The sky was cloudless, the sun white, still not as bright as it would be later in the day. Harry went through the opposite exit, through another corridor, through thick stones walls, gargoyles, portraits leering, whispering, those barely yawning, another flight of stairs. And then he was outside, in the green gardens.  
  
He walked very slowly toward his goal.   
  
His thoughts were confused as he walked, many started and quickly dissolved in the morning, the quiet whiteness of it.   
  
As he approached Hagrid's cabin, his heartbeat sped up a little. Not so much, though, as it did though a Quidditch match. It was the heartbeat before a match. He slowed his steps, feet as light as possible. He didn't want even the grass to move. He took a breath—nothing smelled quite like early morning. It was clean and still, distant. Careful to stay inside the cool silence, and distant from the small house, he circled it, reached for the point where the Forbidden Forest started, and sat down on a heap of dry leafs. Old and tall trees kept the place concealed, this was where he came every morning to blend with the shadows and to watch, unseen, the boy of the snakes.   
  
The boy was blond, and wore large black robes. Sometimes, an arm would come out of it, to straighten them over his torso, around his shoulder, and Harry could see the pale skin, the thinness of the bones. The boy was very pretty, Harry could see, and looked intently in the distance, very still, eyes steady and very wide. He stood on the backside of Hagrid's cabin every morning at half past six, and Harry always spied on him, in the cool, expecting silence. He sometimes moved, and Harry wondered about those movements. They were slow, light, little, odd. The boy didn't want to break the silence and that was odd too, to Harry. Sometimes, a light breeze would brush against the wild threads of the fields that encircled Hogwarts, disrupt the green carpet the boy went to watch.   
  
Then, at some point between half past six and seven, the snakes came.   
  
They went through the green fields, the green, green snakes, they crept steadily from every direction. They went to assemble in front of Hagrid's cabin, because it was in that spot that they had been meeting for centuries, near the Forest, near the castle but not right there. Harry talked to the snakes around the castle sometimes when he didn't want to talk with humans, and he talked to them sometimes those mornings when he came here to watch the boy watch them. The snakes in the Hogwarts area met once every day in the morning, then went separate ways. They were lonely parts of a family that, yet, kept for some reason collected.  
  
When they started to draw near, the boy went stiff. The little movements stopped. He gulped. He froze and his eyes went wider, he glued to the wall of Hagrid's cabin, pressed himself so hard it seemed he wanted to go through. He never adverted his eyes. He looked ill.   
  
Harry loved to look at the boy in these moments, the way he would close his fingers over the rim of his robe, and clutch, the way his skin went white, the way he squeezed his eyes tight and then opened them again, looking on wildly. He very much loved when the boy looked so much like he wanted to run, it made him Harry wonder why he never did.   
  
"He came to watch again"  
  
"Yes"  
  
"Why does he come?"  
  
"I don't know"  
  
"He is very afraid of us, why?"  
  
"I don't know that, either"  
  
"We can't do anything to Hogwarts students"  
  
"I don't think he knows"  
  
"You humans know very little"  
  
"True"   
  
It was only then, that he willed the snakes to go away. He did so every morning, and the snakes obeyed him, even if it meant, for them, to shorten their meeting. They were curious about the boy, just like Harry was. When they disappeared creeping back through the green fields, the boy collapsed. He took deep breaths, shook violently in the aftershock, hands on his knees, bent as to puke. He didn't. Harry wondered if the boy had ever managed to stay there until the snakes' departure, before he had found him the first time, before he had started to make them leave long earlier than they usually did. He thought not.   
  
After long minutes of a silence that was no longer quiet, the boy finally managed to regain the little control he needed to leave. He crept back to the school building with quick, uneven steps.   
  
Then, Harry left too.   
  
  
  
  
  
===============  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When he went back in the common room almost an hour later, he found quite the turmoil, which was pretty unusual at half past seven in the morning. Gryffindors went wild just after they had been properly fed. Ron was sitting near Hermione—Harry noticed with a wry smile that her papers had gone, hidden in a yellow folder laid on the closest seat. Ron appeared to be probing his sister about something; he gestured, snorted, went on inquisitive and restless. Ginny, though, was not responding too well.   
  
She was in distress. Her face was hidden in the crouch of her arms, her upper body sprawled on the table in front of her. Her answers to Ron were nothing but muffled mumbles, hardly even decipherable.   
  
Harry walked towards them, meeting Hermione vaguely curious gaze; ignoring it, wriggling his eyebrows at the Weasleys instead. Hermione just rolled her eyes. Ron kept spitting questions.   
  
"--was that, Gin? You were shrieking so hard you woke up the whole dorm!"   
  
Her head seemed about to disappear someplace inside the deck. "… Sorry"   
  
"You already said you were sorry!"   
  
"… Sorry"  
  
"Ginny!"  
  
"… Uh"  
  
"Look, I'm not stopping until you tell me what's this about."  
  
"What happened," Harry whispered, taking a seat in front of her, leaning into Seamus' to keep the question low. Seamus' voice was shaking with laughter. "I am not sure. Ginny was actually shrieking. Ron's on a roll. I think it's cute, what do you say?" Harry grinned quickly at him, and let his eyes rest on the boy's reddened face; the freckles were flashing. Ron didn't even notice he was back. Which was not bad, too.  
  
Hermione's compassion, though, wasn't for the male Weasley. She rolled her eyes again, and elbowed him non too gently in the ribs. "Ron," she said impatiently. "Give her a break. It was just a bad dream, okay? Right, Ginny? Gin?"   
  
She threw an encouraging, dazzling smile in the general direction of Ginny's head, and Ron glared—Harry wondered if Hermione's true aim was to brighten the sister or to spite the brother. Ginny, on her behalf, felt only part of Hermione's concern, because while her shoulders seemed to relax a bit at the other's words, she wouldn't dare to raise her head yet. A pained "Mmmmh" was all she offered in answer.  
  
Ron threw his hands in the air, frustrated. "See? She won't even talk to me!"   
  
Hermione stared. "And you wonder why?"   
  
Ron glared again. "Stay out of this. It's a family matter"   
  
"No," she answered. "You're an airhead"  
  
"What!"  
  
It developed quickly from there, and while Hermione and Ron's attention was diverted, Harry observed Ginny. Ginny was a difficult person to observe, after all, always looking away, walking unsteadily, lurking in a corner. Always blushing so hard it made him feel guilty only to look at her. Now her ears, the only visible part of her face, were tinted by a flaming, violent red, that made the colour of the locks curling gingerly around them pale in comparison. Maybe, he thought, he should stop Ron and Hermione. He looked at them, decided he didn't even want to go there. So he leaned forward a bit, and touched her left arm. "Gin?" he called softly.   
  
She stiffened. Then, after some long instants, she raised her head tentatively. Her face was the same bright red of her ears.  
  
He smiled reassuringly. "Gin, was it really a nightmare?"  
  
"Uhm" She avoided his eyes.   
  
"… If it was a nightmare, you should tell Ron about it"  
  
"… Uhm"  
  
Harry corrected his aim. "Or Madam Pomfrey. She has… stuff to make that better. Potions," he explained, a little uneasily.   
  
Ginny shifted in her seat. "It wasn't a nightmare…"   
  
"Oh" He blinked. "Then what's up?"   
  
Feebly, came the third, "Uhm"   
  
Harry sighed. In that moment, a pretty fifth year that Harry knew only by sight stopped by them. She put her hands on the desk, long blond hair oscillating back and forth with the violence of her movements. She was grinning from ear to ear, and looked a little too hype for comfort. "Don't feel bad, Gin," she chirped. "I thought it was fun. Feel free to do that again whenever you want"   
  
Ginny's head fell back in her arms. So much for delicacy.   
  
Another fifth year, this one spotting a wild head of short black curls, joined in. She looked entirely less impressed. "Hell, no" she seethed. "Don't you even dream about it, Ginny." Ginny silently shook her head, and Seamus smiled genially. "What," he asked the two girls, voice sing-songing. "Was she doing exactly?" The blonde grinned, and the brunette grimaced. From the gleam in Seamus' eyes, he had already heard the whole tale, and not just once.  
  
"Seamus," Harry hissed.   
  
The blonde's eyes gleamed, too. "Oh. I don't know. I heard House Elves shriek. Thought Slytherins were ensuing tortures again. So I stood up, ready to fight for social justice et all, and turns out it was Ginny instead. She was hollering and running through the room, and shaking her arms in the air. For a moment, I thought she was chasing Peeves. But then again, Peeves is hard to miss" When she finished her speech, her eyes were widened beyond possibility.  
  
Seamus burst laughing, and Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry hissed 'Seamus' again, and then he pinched him in the arm since the hissing didn't work. Seamus glared. Ron stopped whatever he was about to tell Hermione to mutter, "God. My sister is possessed" Ginny, suddenly, stood up.   
  
It shut about everyone in the room. She looked wild, dishevelled, and a little out of breath. "Just…" she started, and made a pause. Then: "… stop"   
  
In the silence that followed, Harry noticed that Ginny had not stopped reddening. She was looking directly at her brother, determined, probably, not to let her stare stagger. A giggle burst somewhere, rapidly muffled. Ginny and Ron. Sometimes they hugged, sometimes they fought, and most of time, they just ignored each other. Of course, it was more Ron who did the ignoring. Ginny stood silent, and you just couldn't understand if she was ignoring you, too, when she looked away—for some reason, Harry thought she wasn't. Hugging, fighting and ignoring was a very normal behaviour for brothers but everything Ginny did, for some reason, looked to Harry very odd. Out of her control or awfully deliberate. Like the spiral the red locks escaping from her tail traced around her ear. Even just a blush. Odd redness. Maybe she was just a strange girl.   
  
Ron scowled at his sister, and Harry could practically see her cringe. "Well THEN," he spelled distinctly "Give me a GOOD reason for behaving like you spent the night getting high on BELLADONNA, and it better be not THAT," he spat through gritted teeth, and Harry pressed his lips together, to stifle a chuckle of his own—it would just earn him one of those reproachful looks Hermione was now addressing Ron, narrowing her girly and abstract eyebrows. But Hermione, she just didn't see, how Ron was simply incompetent. The whole dorm was probably thinking he was being a pain in the neck, and a tactless and intrusive one at that. How did he look to his weird sister? Another flush of violent red rose to Ginny's face. Smirks all around. Eager silence. "… Peeves," she finally said, and this time, Harry couldn't suppress a grin. Seamus chortled.   
  
Ron's eyes narrowed. "What?"   
  
"PEEVES," she repeated, more loudly. "I was screaming for PEEVES. I was actually chasing PEEVES"   
  
And with that, she ran from the common room.   
  
It was really for the better, because she shouldn't have seen her brother's expression. It cracked the room with awe. It also filled it with more smirks. Were they directed at him in particular or just at the situation as a whole, Harry wasn't sure. Hermione, not one to be awed too long, broke the silence. "Ron, you are so sensitive I wonder why your sister hasn't killed herself already"   
  
"HERMIONE!"  
  
She snorted, and stood up, not paying him attention. Ron stared while she went away, spluttering, and then he stood up too, glaring daggers at her back. Harry sighed, and walked at his side.   
  
"I can't bloody believe that woman!"  
  
Harry glanced at him, while they passed the doors and started down the stairs. From downwards, came the noise of catcalls, hurried steps. It was the third time that day that Harry went through that path, and this one wasn't as calm and bewitched in the slightest. "Ginny or Hermione?"   
  
"Hermione!" Ron answered immediately, eyes burning with indignation. Then he added, "And bloody Ginny too." At Harry's odd look, he snapped. "What?"   
  
He looked away. "Right, bloody Ginny. But Ron, you could have—  
  
"NO"   
  
"No?"   
  
"No. Don't start you too. One is already enough" He scowled at Hermione's impossibly straight back, while she walked ahead of them, fingers sliding over the papers inside her folder, paying little to no attention to Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown's chattering. At the ground floor, people rushed around them, and Harry recognized Cho Chang, gave her a little smile, Cho returned it quickly, and just as quickly looked away. Her friends giggled, and Harry's jaw tightened. "Malfoy's right," said Ron in that moment, and Harry to turned to look at him in surprise. "Gryffindors are self-righteous" He stopped in his tracks. "I can't believe I said that"  
  
Harry stared at him. Ron was staring at the ceiling like it could bless him with the key to all the mysteries of life, and the freckles were flaring, again. His lips were pursued and his eyebrows wriggled—Harry looked away, and laughed. "Don't let him hear you"  
  
Ron's eyes flashed. "No shit," he growled moving on. Hermione had stopped by the doors to the Great Halls, her hand placed over the blue drapes, and she was eyeing them with the look of an eternally patient mother. "Bloody Malfoy," Ron mumbled walking up and past her, pushing the drapes in the air behind him.   
  
Hermione turned to Harry, eyebrows arching. He shook his head, and followed inside. "Don't ask"  
  
"Well," she said trailing at his side. "It's bloody Malfoy alright"  
  
"Indeed"   
  
The room was already almost full. Breakfast: eggs and bacon, and then milk, red, juicy cherries, marmalade. The marmalade stung a bit but was still sweet. Loved, the breakfast. They sat down, facing each other as usual, mood mildly touchy as usual. This is my slightly dysfunctional family, and this is me, covered in marmalade and sort of happy. Ron was still making faces at Hermione, she was still rolling her eyes. Ginny sat in the farest corner of the table, and hid herself behind a curtain of first years. Harry made a mental note to talk to her that afternoon, and attacked half-heartedly a piece of apple pie. It tasted mushy and faint. His eyes wandered through the room—over Ravenclaws, supposed to be the smart girls but to Harry's experience, so far only proved to be the prettiest, a little forward, over Professor Bins crossing the room in the channel between the two tables, and.  
  
"I swear, Ron, you're the biggest bitch I've ever known in my life. Pansy Parkinson doesn't count, though"  
  
"Oh, so gracious of you. Harry, would you listen to this? The Perfect Prefect here is saying I am a bitch. The nerve. Harry?"  
  
He jerked and turned to Ron, who looked naughty—Hermione was right, the day couldn't start for Ron if he didn't bitch at least half an hour before—and then to Hermione, who wore a sophisticate version of his expression—and he caught her eyes flickering at the use of the nickname. He sighed—it seemed to have become his favourite action. "What?"   
  
"Nevermind," Ron made a great show to shake his head, earning another glare from Hermione. "Let's change topic. Harry, where did you go this morning? You weren't in your bed"   
  
Well, at long last. Harry was not happy, though, about Ron's final flash of interest. He looked away, shrugged forcibly. Can't act to save my life. Ron stared at him, eyes quizzical. Well, it's a luck he's not very subtle, too. "Just out to take some air," he explained vaguely. "I woke early"   
  
Hermione flashed him a smug smirk. Harry caught it, held it, and wondered, for just a second, about their common secrets concerning Ron. The waking up so early in the morning, to study and to go watch something no one should, and the keeping it a secret, accordingly. The fears that Ron would be gone if he found out. To appear true in front of him, and then to disappear, keep up the perfect face to cover secret dreams. Harry wondered how much of their fears were similar, how different Hermione's hiding was from his—why the almost competition, who gets caught first. But to the core of it, what it all spun around was love. So spin it around some more. Let's see how much it lasts. It could even go on forever. He raised an eyebrow, and shot a meaningful look at the folder with the timetables placed on the table in front of her. She had not even started to deliver them. Hermione scowled, but quickly averted her eyes, too.   
  
Caught in the middle of the silent communication, Ron just blinked. "Oh"   
  
And it made Harry laugh.   
  
He winked at them both, and filled three glasses with milk and cacao. "Let's get some sugar," he said. Still happy to have a family, though. "Hermione, do the honours"  
  
She snorted, smirked, and reached for the timetables. Ron clutched a hand over his heart. "Tell me lies, Oh Great Prefect, tell me lies!"  
  
She laughed.   
  
Harry's eyes finally drifted to the Slytherins' table, the vicious faces of beasts just woken up. The snarling faces of spoiled children deprived of their beauty sleep. Malfoy's blond hair flashed inside the wave of dark heads that oscillated slowly, heavy with sleep. He looked closed inside of himself, languid. Pansy Parkinson hissed something in Zabini's direction, and not even Zabini, a lovable one for Slytherins standards, was hype enough to be lovable in the morning. Harry saw him spit something back, mutter angrily, throw his arms up in the air. Such a flaming queer. Malfoy was unperturbed by this, even through they were sitting at his sides, and insults were thrown across his face. He kept smothering his hair, an almost white lock pulled in front of his eyes, fingers running over it again and again. His movements were little, quietened. His bones thin. Their eyes met.   
  
Harry looked away, pointedly.   
  
Still have to talk to Ginny.  
  
Still happier than you.  
  
He slathered marmalade over a toast.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
==========  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Victoria Vector was writing a letter.   
  
She had pulled the curtains over the windows, not because she was especially fond of the light, but because Gryffindors preferred to attend her lesson in a bright classroom, or so they said. Slytherins loved too much to brood and seethe about it for her to spoil their fun. Her quill traced perfect lines over the imperfect surface of thin cardboard, so much better for coding charms. She lingered over the 'a's, the 'o's, the 'c's. Rounded characters could swell so prettily. Just like the black fire during a summoning.   
  
Today she would start on theory of summoning with the sixth years. Invoking a living creature was quite different than summoning a broomstick, and only Arithmancy students possessed, at age sixteen, the preparation to be introduced to the matrixes and the chains of magical forces unlashed during those rituals. She wondered how many of them knew how dangerous for both mind and body it was. That it had been considered, for centuries, Dark Magic, but was never fully refused, because it was too useful. The Slytherins, she was positive they all knew. Granger probably had researched on the subject by herself ages ago, as she always did. But the other Gryffindors were always so ignorant of that kind of things. And Hufflepuffs would be terrified by the simple knowledge. So it was better not to inform her class that part of what they were going to learn, that year, was Dark Magic, and see how it went. It was so amusing to observe Gryffindors struggle against the madness of forbidden summoning, and Slytherins feed on it. There were always one or two students that wanted to try what classes wouldn't let them. Usually Gryffindors, because they had to prove that they were brave, or Slytherins, because Slytherins always did that kind of things. Sixth years were supposed to only know the theory and the most innocuous practice, but before Christmas, books would always disappear from the restricted area of the library. And some unprepared student would try to deal with demons all alone, in the Astronomy Tower or in some unused classroom. In Chambers that were supposed to be closed. She had always wondered if Tom Riddle hadn't done a bit of illegal summoning too, in his days. He probably did. And he got mad, didn't he? Slytherins always did, and most of time, so did Gryffindors. Hufflepuffs were too scared even to start. She, had been a Ravenclaw. She spent most of her years at Hogwarts watching, watching others struggle.   
  
Magical ink finally getting some rest, she finished her letter. She read it again once, admired the mere aesthetical perfection of her swelling signs combined; the coding charm lingered green over the characters, turning the black words into entirely different ones, if you only knew the password to whisper. Then she signed, Victoria Vector. Alliteration. Alliteration was a pretty thing, too. She walked to the great stones vaults, opened the windows and called her owl. While she tied the letter tight around her claw, twenty good minutes before class started, Draco Malfoy entered the classroom.   
  
They shared a nod, the boy even smiled, thinly and leering a bit, too, and she smiled back, unable to resist. Draco Malfoy was her favourite student. He had not the best grades in her class, but he was her favourite student. Too pretty the sneer, too endearing the little revenges. The boy walked to the last row of desks, and sat down. Didn't open his textbooks, didn't start revising madly. Looking out of the window with detached eyes, he kept smothering a lock of his hair, intently. She whispered a name into her owl's ear, caressed his blackish, soft plumes once, and sent it flying high over green fields. Returning to her desk and sitting down herself, she rested her eyes over the blond boy once again—he clearly didn't mind the attention. Although, there was something. Early in the morning, he still had not started preening. He looked like he was lingering in the night's dreams. There was something special with being a Ravenclaw, something special with not being much interested in light or darkness, because you were left all the time to watch.   
  
Just like his father, the student Draco Malfoy passed rather unnoticed in the general scheme of things. Lucius Malfoy spent his years at Hogwarts leering quietly from the borderlines, savouring the power that came from relative anonymity. Of course, people would know his name. But history books wouldn't report it. Nor the Hufflepuffs' gossip, most of time. The difference between him and his son stood in the way they handled their state: Lucius, smug—Draco, restless, frustrated, mad for attention. Lucius had never been too eager to put himself in the centre of attention, never too eager to compromise his position and his alliances for a revenge. For the satisfaction of a perfectly worded, hurtful remark. To make them all pay for getting more credit than him. But of course they were going to get more credit: he was a Slytherin, came from a family of Dark Wizards, he wasn't supposed to be trusted. That, Lucius understood. That, allowed Lucius to exhale smoke slowly from his cigarette and smirk, through the grey blur, his eyes shady and smug. That, allowed him to be satisfied with himself—for his victories were in the darkness, and all the more sweet. He smirked a smirk that could be quickly turned into a smile, if someone wanted to use it as a proof against him. During the first years of You Know Who's reign of terror, during the trials after he fell—me? My wife? We were under Imperius, everyone can see it. Meddling with Dark Arts, what a silly idea. It's a prejudice against my family. With my perfect record, with my soft manicured hands, with my silken shirts. We can't have them dirtied, don't you think? Yet after the Potters died, he calmly lighted himself a cigarette and quietly, quietly, smirked. Professor Vector should know. She went to visit, after so many years, when the storm had passed. The gardens were wet with rain, the honeysuckles and the orchids flashing white, in all the green. His wife was in her rooms with the child, and Lucius was smiling smugly. He said, The Potters weren't very bright, were they? Gryffindors, they always risk too much.  
  
The secret was all in not calling too much attention over themselves. Why didn't Lucius teach that to his son? So many things Draco missed, to be happy in his life. He would never, unlike his father, be amused enough, distant enough, sated enough.   
  
Though, she liked the hunger.   
  
He could summon fairies, but wanted to summon Firebolts.  
  
Professor Vector liked it very much, to watch people struggle.   
  
And she also liked: numbers. Predicting the exact behaviour a charm would adopt when a new multiplier was applied to it. The feeling of calm in the library, the whiteness of it. The feeling of calm when she translated a charm to her students, turned it into a simple sequence of elemental operations, and saw that they understood. When magic became so transparent it no longer looked like magic. She liked even more: a magic that she couldn't fully explain.   
  
She didn't like: flying. No matter how safe the movement looked when explained as a combination of magical forces, she always was afraid to fall. The broom went too fast and too high—it couldn't but fall soon. She didn't like lack of control. Though she liked feeling dizzy, she didn't like to fall. She didn't like when it was clear that her side wasn't going to win the war.   
  
She liked: long blond hair oscillating on a girl's back, as she walked through the Great Hall. The thick mass brushing against each curve, shiny and fine and promising. To gaze at her from the Ravenclaws table and then suddenly meet her eyes. Deep blue—filling slowly with light, the pleased, lazy smile. Another pair of blue eyes, paler, glancing up from an ancient book. Another kind of smile, open, enthusiast. The mild light of early afternoon, the library almost empty, the dust dancing in the sunbeams. Molly, what are you researching today?  
  
She didn't like: men that couldn't appreciate the brilliance of their women. Men that needed to slide their hands down their women's waist, squeeze, to give out an appearance of power. Girls without any flesh over their hips. The only one she had even forgiven, was Narcissa. At fourteen, she had been a vicious child, the baby doll.   
  
Her best student walked in the classroom, finally, with hurried, earnest steps. Hermione Granger fortunately had quite lovable curves, and was a sight to please her eyes. It made Professor Vector forgive her the anal retentive expressions. Miss Granger and Mister Malfoy exchanged seething looks, and while the resting part of her class walked in, Hufflepuffs throwing smiles right and left and Ravenclaws poising, she smiled, and started to collect her papers.   
  
This morning: on summoning charms.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
==========  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry's morning: quite lame.   
  
Double Divination went away smoothly, all things considered. Trelawney predicted his death in five different ways: suicide, a friend backstabbing him, a tragic accident during Transfiguration (bitter thing, Trelawney), a charm gone wrong, and an enemy mistaken for a friend. Wasn't that the second one reworded? No, it was not. It had Harry pondering for a while. Ron predicted his own downfall—Lavender Brown snorted, asking from which eminent position was he falling exactly. He answered something about positions that made her blush and sputter. Trelawney said they were going to start on tarots.   
  
"Blimley," Ron whispered in Harry's ear, as they messed around with the cards. They were oddly fascinating, a gothic eye-candy. "Divination first thing in the morning. What a life"  
  
"Hermione got it worse, though," Harry answered, ignoring the compassionate looks Trelawney kept throwing his way. "You know who is in class with her in Arithmancy"   
  
Ron shuddered a lot more violently that he normally would. "Bloody Malfoy," he said, and then his eyes lightened up. "Hey! Look! La mort!" The card that he had just extracted from the pack was yellowed by age, almost greenish. It showed a skeleton, dressed in black robes. "Do you think it means something that it came out just when we were talking about him?"   
  
The greenish card, and the snakes. Avada Kedavra, the Slytherins, the basilisk. Slide, slide. A drawling voice: "Want to leave it to the Dementors, do you? But if it was me, I'd want revenge. I'd hunt him down myself." Lucius Malfoy kneeling in front of his enemy. The asphyxia while being tied down, and unable to move. The chill down his spine. Kill the spare. And then no other spare were killed. Fear in waiting, waiting too much and then the fear dissolving. The little pains burning always lesser, the tears getting dried, because, everyone has got tears at some point, and every tear has been dried. Maybe, it's just stopped. The stubborn denial, my life can be normal. The green, green snakes, and the boy.   
  
And then Malfoy.   
  
"I overheard an interesting conversation about you this summer, Potter"  
  
Harry stared at the card for a while. "Death," he said, flipping it over. "Don't get your hopes too high"  
  
  
  
At lunch, he tried to talk to Ginny. She sat in the same corner she was at breakfast, and Harry, approaching, tried to ignore the way first years were goggling at him. He rested his hand on her shoulder, and she jumped, triggering a spurt of giggles from a groups of little girls. Harry grimaced. "Sorry, Gin," he said quickly. "Didn't mean to scare you. Listen, do you—"   
  
He stopped mid-sentence, voice trailing off.   
  
Ginny had gone wide-eyed as soon as she'd seen him. Then, she simply had turned back to her dish, and was now emptying it with great, hurried mouthfuls. "Well," Harry commented, flabbergasted. "Don't choke"  
  
"Sorry," she mumbled standing up. "I got to go now Harry bye"   
  
She ran quickly through the Hall towards the Gryffindor Tower, and Harry watched her go.  
  
"Bye" He said, to no one in particular.   
  
Ron intercepted his gaze. "Well, that went good" he yelled across the table. "Yes" He responded joining him in the sixth years area, voice flat, and Ron rolled his eyes. "Here, eat something. You'll need energy for Potions"  
  
Harry wasn't the only one to moan.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
==========  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sorry sorry sorry!"  
  
"Sorry isn't enough! How DARE you!"  
  
"Sorry! Really… sorry! I didn't know what to do!"  
  
"I don't care! What kind of person locks a PURE fairy into a trunk for a WHOLE FIVE HOURS! You don't really realize your luck, do you? Bring me back to HIM!"   
  
Ginny cringed. The fairy hadn't been very amicable since she had woken up that morning. Ginny didn't know what to do—especially after all her roommates had started to wake up and look at her as she had gone completely nutter. She had managed to lock the creature away, but of course she couldn't remember any sleeping charm; of course, it didn't matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember when it was really needed. I am such a failure, she thought now, watching while the fairy dashed around the room, so fast it was hardly visible. She tried to ignore the mental images coming to her, the scene of that morning in the common room. Ron's annoyed voice. The disappointment. Ron though she couldn't feel it.  
  
"Bring me back! Bring me back to him! Stupid human, this is an order!"  
  
Wasn't he a human, too? Ginny thought of Draco Malfoy, clear eyes glinting in the darkness of the cupboard. She thought of the way he pronounced vocalic sounds, the way they rolled out of his mouth, curving into each other. Venom is thin, elegant, swell. She thought of his smooth hands handing out the fairy, and closed her eyes, cringed again. Harry's hands were coloured, pasty, so very open. The image of pale dried hands closing down twisted her stomach into knots.   
  
Though—  
  
"Did you hear me? Let me go!"  
  
The crystalline voice of the fairy rang high in the emptiness of the fifth years room. Ginny raised her arms and jolted forward, trying to catch the small body in her hands—and she failed, much the same way she had failed that morning. Only traces of silvery powder were left in front of her, and Ginny stumbled forwards, falling on her knees, hitting her face on the ground.   
  
"Ouch," she said, straightening. She rubbed her forehead, looked at the glow zig-zagging near the ceiling.   
  
Though—  
  
"Ah! You deserved that, you silly." The little mouth was twisted into a smirk. "Bring me back!"  
  
Ginny sat up on the floor, crossed her legs. She looked for a while in the fairy's snarling face, then brought a hand to her face, moved locks of curling red hair behind her ears. She felt again dishevelled, reddened, a little sweaty. "No," she said in the end. "Not so soon." Dropping her eyes to the ground, Ginny bit her bottom lip. "Can't you just," she asked after a long silence "Stay with me for a bit?"  
  
Though the Malfoy's hands are always bearing unimaginable gifts.  
  
Isn't that scary.  
  
The silence prolonged. Ginny catching her breath, a liquid insubstantial sound lingering somewhere, repeating itself again and again, wings battling. She needed to go to the library, Ginny thought, she needed to sit down as she did many times during her second year, and read. The library had been frustrating, and anguishing, so Ginny had stopped going. Being told the same things over and over again, those things everyone already knew. After someone spoke his secrets to you in such an intimate, budding whisper, it's hard, getting used to the clinical voice of History. The chronicles of Tom Riddle's misdoings and failures.   
  
We're all failing, aren't we. Ron was so sweet, curled with me in the sofa of the common room, late in the night, while Hermione and Harry studied on summoning charms. Then they made him stop failing again, he was sleeping in deep waters and felt safe, and I was failing once more alone. We haven't quite been the same since we were children. Nuzzling together.  
  
The fairy came hanging around her head. Ginny didn't dare raise her eyes—she could feel the silvery gaze on her. She's all silver. Silver is a Slytherin colour. She shifted, started to speak, voice subsided. "The others will be here in minutes. We don't have much time" Hearing her voice break, Ginny closed her eyes. "And I—"  
  
"No"  
  
"—have classes, and—What?"   
  
Her head jerked up, and she met a naughty, silver sneer.   
  
"No," the other repeated. She sounded almost like she was gloating. "I won't stay with you. I want to go back to him"  
  
"… Oh" Ginny bat her eyelids, quickly, one, two, three times.   
  
The fairy's features twisted into a grin. "But since you are so desperate for my company, I suppose you can drag me around until we catch him," she concluded, eyes twinkling. She made a loop in the air, shook her wings. Ginny raised her hands, palms over, and the fairy came resting down on them.   
  
"… Really?" she asked, awed.   
  
The small body seemed to swell, crossed by a silvery jolt of light. "Really." She nodded, shoulders straightening, smile smug. Clearly, being worshipped suited her fancy. Ginny didn't care being used as a personal boost. So many people did, really.   
  
Don't let the scary gift leave again.  
  
The fairy tilted her head. She studied, for some seconds, Ginny's pale-brown eyes; the shy, quiet amazement inside. She didn't say anything for a long while, then, she suddenly grinned. "So you want to see him, too! He's pretty, isn't he?"   
  
Ginny's eyes widened. Malfoy—pretty? She had never thought about it. Malfoy who would kill her if she told anyone. "He has pretty eyes." And pretty hands, too, she thought. And he is scary, but then again, so is the Unspeakable Fairy, and so was Tom Riddle.   
  
There was a giggle.   
  
"You like him! You want to see him!"  
  
Ginny smiled then, a little, private smile, like everything that counted in her life. There were things, that the fairy wouldn't understand. Things that people wouldn't understand. Things that they would always try to explain in the easiest way. It was good to have a secret.  
  
"I just want to see things," she said, and then she stood up, and ignoring the fairy's puzzled look, she slid her inside the large folds of her Hogwarts uniform.   
  
She walked off the room.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
============  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Entering the Potions classroom caused Harry some instantaneous reactions. Some were given by the smells: newt, mandrake, torpid oils. All those made him think of Severus Snape, and punctually, made his face twist in a pained grimace. The creeping cold from humid stone walls, the subtle, scarce quality of the light entering from the high windowpanes, the green fleshy roots of belladonna—those made him think of Slytherins, as a whole. There was a feeling of both gloom and frustration, of vindictive planes worked in the shadows, of ambition bidding its time, hiding behind ugly faces.   
  
And then there were those who were far from ugly, those who embodied prettiness—it was a pale, lovely face that seemed to contradict all legends about Slytherins' unattractiveness, but at the same time, it made them all the more true. As Draco Malfoy came strolling through the doors, flanked by his two goons, Harry let his eyes rest on him, follow his slick movements. Raised chin, smooth shoulders flattened back into an elegant posing; not too rigid, through, bent to give out a feel of control and disinterest. Oh, no. Can't fool me. Malfoy's eyes were always trailed on him, Harry could feel them on his back, sliding over his body when he flied on the Quidditch field, every time Malfoy thought Harry couldn't see him. And the way he would look at Ron, Hermione. Ginny. The way their eyes would meet through the Great Hall. The way Harry looked away. He could feel the other's impatience increase. The Slytherins' only purpose was to be a bad, depraved, snotty opponent. Take that away, they were left no reason to exist. It relieved Harry.   
  
Malfoy walked over their bench, threw them a quick, condescending look, and went off, sitting at his usual place near Blaise Zabini. Crabbe and Goyle settled themselves behind him, dispensing threatening looks all around. Harry heard Ron growl, Hermione mutter, half annoyed, half patronizing, "Let him be". He wondered if Hermione felt it too, how lame it all was. Slytherins made him shiver, he hated Snape's abuse with a passion, hated Malfoy's taunts, and, in that same shiver that twisted his stomach with disgust, there was relief. To know what venom they must harbour, how much envy for the winner, how weak the bony arms, how many ugly fears behind the pretty face.   
  
Snape made his entrance, and the classroom hushed. Slytherins looked at him in adoration, or sneered, exchanged with him understanding, smooth smiles. That annoying knowing smirk. Snape and Malfoy shared one of those, now, an old, petty, unpleasant man, and the young disciple, so lovely to the eyes and so rotten, inside. Harry gritted his teeth. Snape's gaze trailed on him, his eyes narrowed, and Harry struggled not to lose his composure. He held the man's gaze until it didn't drift away, to rest, just as malicious, over another random Gryffindor; Neville, more likely. If Harry ever hoped that the events in the end of his fourth year would have changed Snape's attitude towards him, he'd been seriously delusional.   
  
"I hope you've been revising during the summer," the Potion Master stated, keeping his eyes on the Gryffindors' side of the classroom. "Most of you were in serious need of it, at the end of last year"  
  
And finally, he looked away, and the lesson started. Harry breathed.   
  
It took him only an half hour, to decide, once again, that he definitely wasn't interested in Potions. The air in the classroom was humid, stagnant. He let his gaze wander through, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Malfoy, again, Malfoy, then Parvati Patil, and finally Dean. The boy was trying to make eye contact with him, and Harry jerked out of his lethargy. A piece of paper landed over his desk, and he looked up anxiously at Snape, but the man was turned from them as he enlisted Potions celebrities, eyes gleaming while he lingered on Cesare Borgia's name. Who was that one again?  
  
Hermione elbowed him. "Take your notes," she hissed. He unfolded the tightly wrapped paper.   
  
  
  
Harry,  
  
What about we take it up tonight? History of magic classroom? Bins always forgets to lock the door.  
  
D.  
  
  
  
Harry smiled.   
  
Dean's eyes: deep brown. They had been trailing over his forehead, a focused sparkle dancing in them under the small light projected by a lumos. That night, they chose the unused classroom at the feet of the Astronomy tower. Dean had come closer, hand reaching up to his forehead, fingers hesitating before touching his hair. "Can I?" he had asked, voice oddly detached.   
  
Breathing. Warm air against his lips, smelling. Strong odours, and clean, together. Dean was always clean. A flat body close to his own, moving. A boy. The stillness of the room, the silence. Harry had shifted, nodded. "Sure"  
  
"So weird" Dean's fingers had brushed his fringe away, and then traced his scar. "So pretty, really" A smile. "The shape, I mean"  
  
Harry remembered nodding again, while Dean returned to his chair, several feet away. It was reassuring, the cold, artistic interest. No expectations of magic prowess, of miracles starting, flashing green. Only a scar, pretty. Dean traced lines on his notepad, ink moving quickly.   
  
"Can I see?"   
  
A wink. "Not until it's finished"  
  
"Oh" Shifting again, blinks, changes in position. "You'll make me famous"   
  
Dean had given him a dry look. Harry's laugh was a little forced. "Oh, okay"  
  
"Don't worry, Harry. I am very grateful for this. When you save the world, my quotations will shot" A finger tapping the page he was drawing over. "Portrait of the Hero as a young man"  
  
A grin. "I'll be your patron" He had been silent for a while, the sound of ink sliding on paper very thin, very regular. "Well, do you plan to portray others?"   
  
"Of course, you bighead. I only did my mother and my brothers so far, other Muggles, and you of course… but I plan on Ginny Weasley"  
  
"Ginny?"  
  
"Yes" Dean didn't look up from the sketch. "She is so small, and always looks somewhere else. I wonder—"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I just do"  
  
"Oh"   
  
The silence was not awkward. Dean's dark head bent down. Long black hair. Black: the opposite of white. Dean was biting his bottom lip, frowning in concentration. Harry bit his bottom lip too. "And then? Will you do others? Students?"  
  
"Mm" A nod, a quick glance, eyes lingering on his cheekbone. "Malfoy, if I ever get around to ask him"  
  
Jerking: "What?! Malfoy?!"  
  
"Shh! They'll hear you!"  
  
"Sorry" A look around, quick, then a lower whisper. "But—Malfoy? Dean!"   
  
"Aren't you overreacting a bit?"   
  
A pause. "No. Dean, it's Malfoy. He's a little conceited shit"  
  
Dean had looked at him oddly, then he had smiled. "Exactly" The pleased, soft angle in his voice had taken Harry out of guard. "He's a little conceited shit," Dean had repeated. "He's nasty, spoilt, snotty, and puerile. There's not really any fascination with the devil theme. No evil coolness there. He's just a loser"  
  
Harry had thought for a while. Then, he had asked, "If he's so unattractive, why do you want to portray him?"   
  
Dean had smiled, a small slow twitch on the corner of his mouth, the dancing light in his eyes appearing once again. "Because, Harry, true beauty is in the inbetweens." Then the loop-sided grin had turned into a smirk. "Cool is so passé"  
  
Harry had laughed.   
  
Back to the Potions classroom: Dean's eyes, still deep brown. Harry looked over, and met Dean's expecting, vaguely wicked grin. He nodded his agreement. Dean winked, and turned back. Harry was still smiling, when he met, across the room, intent grey eyes.   
  
His heartbeat sped. Malfoy looked from him to Dean, growing wry. Harry's eyes narrowed. What could Malfoy possibly know? It was no good to look flustered in front of him, it was the kind of slip parasites like Malfoy fed upon. Harry never did. He cut the eye contact, as he always did, looking down at the white pages in front of him. He grabbed his quill, started copying Hermione's notes. She scowled at him, but said nothing, and Harry waited the end of the class with a sense of foreboding.   
  
He had thought, at some point, to tell Dean about the boy of the snakes. Malfoy's sneering face, the vicious, selfish barb. Spiteful, smug. Lame. Channelling all his energies into plots to make the others' life miserable. That was, for Dean, an interesting subject. The boy of the snakes was pretty, as Dean liked, and always afraid. He stared at the fields, wide eyes, scared to death. Weak. Would that be an interesting inbetween to Dean, too?   
  
When Snape finally declared class over, Hermione grabbed her things, said something about a meeting with the other prefects, and left in a hurry. Harry followed her small figure, forcing its way through the mass of students leaving. Quick and smart, but also curvy, girly and abstract together. Then, a shadow fell over him. Malfoy's grey eyes were laughing, as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on Harry's desk. He nestled his chin into his palms.   
  
"Exchanging secret notes with your boyfriend, Potter? How cute"  
  
Harry didn't even look at him. "Sod off, Malfoy"   
  
"Oh, I don't think so" Malfoy placed his cheek against his crossed arms. "I am mostly interested in the honourable Gryffindors' lapses of decency. What sick little games are you boys up to?"  
  
Harry stood. Malfoy really didn't care to be plausible, he just cared to be annoying. Even while being ridiculous, he looked up at him with a naughty, victorious grin. So, feeling Ron growl in the background, Dean's curious look, Harry shook his head at them. Then he looked down at Malfoy, the mocking eyes, the ducked blond head. I became so familiar with him. That he feasts on glares, indifference drives him mad. "That's just like you, Malfoy. Can't stop seeing perversion everywhere. But I suppose it's just your upbringing, isn't it?"   
  
It took so little, really, to make him lose his cool.   
  
"Orphans of mudbloods shouldn't make that kind of comment, Potter," he spat, immediately standing up too, immediately alert, immediately revealed. His eyes narrowed into grey slants, and he was finally it, little, petty, rotten, snotty, nasty, lame. No naughty grin, no brilliant wit. Weak.   
  
Near Harry, Ron made a step forward. "Take that back, you creep," he hissed, but Harry placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. Ron met his eyes, cross, but retreated, and Harry turned to the blond boy. "Malfoy," he said calmly. "Just, get lost"   
  
Malfoy observed them all, eyes darkening, the hair falling over his eyebrows looking even whiter in comparison. Then, so sudden Harry couldn't see him move, he reached a hand forward. Harry felt the blood leave his face when he saw what Malfoy was aiming to, the white, finely written piece of paper on top of his books—how, just how could he forget to hide it, how could he forget there Dean's note, in full view of everyone—of Malfoy? The boy caught it in his fist, snatched it away, and Harry immediately lurched forward through the desk, a hand closing tightly around his forearm. His fingers dug deep. Through the cloth, Hogwarts robes and the shirt underneath, the small amount of tender, solid flesh. Bony forearms.   
  
It was a strange thought to have now: this is the first time I ever touch him.   
  
"Harry!" he heard Ron exclaim. He paid him no heed, blood pulsing in his temples. What could possibly Malfoy read in that note? It was completely innocent, but Malfoy wouldn't accept it, would he? He would take it and twist it and not even Ron and Hermione knew about his and Dean's meetings.   
  
"Give it back," he commanded lowly.   
  
Malfoy's eyes lightened up. "You really expect me to?" His eager, excited smile caught Harry's eyes, and when Malfoy's arm gave a jerk, he almost lost his grasp. Then he felt Seamus shift behind him, move to circle the desk and get to the Slytherin. Harry turned to stop him—a brawl in Potions period was just what they didn't need, even Ron could see it—and instantly, Malfoy did force against his hand again. It happened in one second. He turned back again, not to let Malfoy escape, and movements made blurry by panic, he let go of his arm and made a wild dash for his hand. His elbow connected against something tough.   
  
A second later, Harry held the note in his hand.   
  
And Malfoy was sprawled on the floor, one hand clutching over his left cheekbone. Looking down at him, Harry saw black, long robes flutter, enter his visual angle with slow steps. He raised his gaze, and met Snape's cold eyes.   
  
"What," the Potion Master asked, voice low and stretching. "Is happening here?"  
  
Malfoy's smirk was triumphant.   
  
Harry closed his eyes in defeat.   
  
The snakes were green, weren't they? And so was the Avada Kedavra.   
  
  
  
  
  
============  
  
  
  
  
  
Next instalment: Ginny and the fairy sort of bond, Draco and Ginny sort of bond, Pansy gets high and Harry serves detention. 


End file.
